After being magically gifted with incredible luck, a boy discovers this gift just may be a curse when it comes to love, in this YA novel by #1 New York Times -bestselling author Marissa Meyer.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an exclusive excerpt, which features a peek at the main character’s graphic novel! With A Little Luck releases on February 13th 2024 and can be pre-ordered here.
Jude is determined to fly under the radar. He just wants to draw his comics, host regular D&D night with his friends, work at his parents’ vinyl record store, and escape high school as unscathed as possible. That is, until the night he comes across a mysterious twenty-sided dice and finds himself inexplicably gifted with a bout of supernatural good luck.
Suddenly, everything Jude has ever wanted is within reach. His first art submission is accepted to his favorite fanzine. He helps his friend’s song become a finalist in a songwriting competition. And he’s the 100th caller to a local radio contest, winning him a pair of coveted concert tickets, which he uses to ask out the popular girl he’s been crushing on since elementary school. For a few blissful weeks, he feels invincible.
But when he loses the magic dice at a local music festival, his luck takes a turn for the worse. He struggles to reclaim his good fortune while fighting off long-buried feelings for his best friend―who is definitely not the girl he’s supposed to be in love with. Can Jude risk stepping into the spotlight long enough to win the true girl of his dreams? Or is he doomed to be unlucky in love forever?
Chapter 6
Despite how our D&D group is losing a member right when we’re about to start our new campaign, the rest of the day is . . . kind of awesome. I’m not sure I can remember having a better day, at least not during my high school career. There’s almost a mystical quality to it, like Mercury’s in retrograde and the stars have aligned in my favor or whatever.
In gym class, I make the best basketball shot of my life, a threepointer that I’m not entirely sure should have been physically possible outside of the NBA.
In political science, Ms. Spencer pairs me up with Maya to discuss the role of the media in our most recent local elections, and normally this would leave me petrified, except Maya is in her element and has plenty to say on the subject, making it pretty easy for me to nod along in agreement and try not to make it obvious when I catch the occasional scent of her shampoo and nearly implode from olfactory overload.
I mean that in a good way. A very good way.
And then, miracle of miracles, Mr. Cross announces in my last period of the day, visual arts, that we’re going to spend the next week drawing the human form, something I’m already decent at, but also would like to do better.
As soon as it’s announced, Ezra throws his arms into the air and jubilantly proclaims— “Bring on the nude models!”
To which Quint shoves him on the shoulder and says, “You’re up first, EZ.”
And did Ezra jump out of his seat and start stripping off his T-shirt to a chorus of whistles and hollers from our classmates?
Of course he did.
It took the teacher ten minutes to get everyone settled down again—and Ezra fully clothed—and the rest of the period was spent looking at slides of artworks depicting the human body in various forms. Male, female, curvy, slender, short, tall, everything in between. Mr. Cross points out a lot of details I wouldn’t have noticed on my own—how the arrangement of the figures alters their apparent relationships to one another. How the vibe of the piece changes in intensity when the figures are directly facing the viewer versus being turned into a profile view. How much the direction of the figure’s own eyes and attention can impact the interpretation of the piece.
I sketch the whole time, trying to soak in as much information as possible, eager to see if this new information translates to my pencil.
My teachers don’t even assign any homework. Not a single one. On a Monday.
That never happens.
Not that I’m complaining.
The house is quiet for a weekday afternoon. Well . . . quiet-ish. Pru left as soon as we got home from school, off for her volunteer gig at the animal rescue center. Lucy is at soccer practice. Mom and Dad took Ellie with them to the record store. That just leaves me and Penny, and Penny is upstairs practicing her violin.
Hence, quiet-ish.
I don’t mind her practicing, though. She’s improved a lot this last year, and after a while, the repetition of her recital songs becomes somewhat soothing background noise.
I’m at the kitchen table, munching through a second bowl of Lucky Charms and reading through my notes for the upcoming campaign, trying to figure out if I need to change anything now that we’ve lost Matt. I don’t really want to change anything. I’ve put a lot of work into this campaign, and I’m tempted to just continue on with how I’ve designed it and make adjustments while we play, if necessary. That’s the hallmark of a good Dungeon Master, isn’t it? That we can be flexible and adapt the story as we go?
It also crosses my mind to try to find a new player, but I don’t know who I would ask. None of my sisters are interested. Well, Ellie would probably love to, but I don’t think bringing a kindergartner into the mix would fly with the others. I consider Ari. We’ve never had anyone play a bard in the group before, but she usually works at the store on Saturdays.
I look down at the blank page in front of me, tapping my pencil against my thumb. I think of the upcoming campaign. Lost ruins and hordes of goblins and a powerful curse . . .
The lead of my pencil brushes against the paper, and I start to draw.
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Open in new tab The chiming notification of a text message startles me from my focus. I peel my attention away from the page. My fingers are smudged with pencil lead. There’s a crick in my neck from being bent over the table for so long. I blink around in a daze, wondering when the sound of Penny’s violin fell silent. I have a vague memory of Lucy getting home and dropping her cleats in the entryway before dashing upstairs, but I was oblivious to the bright daylight dimming into purple dusk. My stomach growls—the two bowls of cereal more than used up in my rush of inspiration.
It’s after our usual dinnertime. I pick up my phone and see that the text was from my mom, saying that they’re going to be working late at the store, unpacking a bunch of new merch that came in, and asking if I can get dinner for myself, Lucy, and Penny. She’s included a photo of Ellie, fast asleep on the old couch we keep in the back room, her favorite pony toys piled on her chest.
I respond with a thumbs-up emoji, and Mom sends a hug emoji back.
I roll my shoulder a few times, then get up and flip through the cabinets, finding a package of spaghetti and jarred tomato sauce.
I let Lucy and Penny know that dinner will be ready in ten minutes, and check my inbox while the pasta cooks.
One new email.
Subject: Art Submission for the Dungeon
I just about drop the phone into the pot of boiling water. I don’t, thank Cthulhu, but also—it might be better if I did. It would probably be best to never open this email. To never read the rejection that’s coming. It’s like that Schrödinger’s Cat experiment. Until you open the box, the cat is both alive and dead.
Until I open this email, my hopes are both alive and dead.
I know. I never really got the logic of that experiment, either. I’m just stalling.
Give me a moment.
One more.
Okay.
I’m ready.
I take in a stabilizing breath and open the email.
Dear Jude Barnett, thank you for your submission. We like your artistic style and find the point of view refreshing. We are pleased to accept this for our July edition of the Dungeon—
It goes on, but I stop reading. I stare at those words until they blur together.
Pleased to accept.
Pleased to accept.
No. Way.
I feel the pull of a tentative, disbelieving smile on my lips. Am I imagining this?
I take a screenshot and text it to Ari and Pru. Pru’s response comes back immediately.
Pru: NICE. What are they paying?
I roll my eyes.
Jude: Who cares??
When Pru doesn’t respond, I sigh and check the Dungeon’s submission guidelines on their website.
Jude: $50
Pru: Not bad, but we’ll renegotiate for the next one. You’re free to accept.
Jude: When did you become my manager?
Pru: Since the womb, Jude!
Pru: You, Quint, and Ari might be the talent, but you’d be lost without me.
Pru: Okay, maybe not lost. But definitely starving artists.
Jude: That’s artistes to you.
Pru replies with the artist emoji, beret and all.
Ari’s text comes in a few minutes later.
Ari: I told you so!!!
My heart lifts as it starts to sink in. This is real. I submitted a drawing to the Dungeon, and they are actually going to publish it. I’m even getting paid. For drawing something!
Jude: Now you owe me a song.
Ari starts to type a response, the three little dots appearing next to her name.
But then the dots go away.
I wait.
After a long while, she starts to type again.
Ari: Araceli the Magnificent is on it!
My smile returns. I glance down at my sketchbook. Of the bard and the wizard—two characters who had no place in my new campaign yesterday, but now I sort of like where the story is heading. I wasn’t sure before how I was going to start the group off on this new quest, but I can use the bard as an NPC to tell them about the mysterious temple and the wizard and the curse. Maybe she’ll give them the Scarlet Diamond and—
My whole body goes still.
The Scarlet Diamond was a piece of treasure from the one campaign I tried to run with Quint, Pru, and Ari—a campaign that never really got off the ground because, even though they all said they were having fun, it was never a priority for anyone to keep playing and the story kind of just fizzled away. I hadn’t thought much about it until now.
I pull the red dice out of my pocket and hold it up toward my drawing. I think about the story I’ve been concocting, the mythology of the temple that I was telling Ari about during open mic night.
A maiden turned to stone, a curse that can only be broken by someone deemed worthy. And for that adventurer who succeeds in breaking the spell? A gift. A spell that gives you uncanny good luck with every roll of the dice.
These things that have been happening to me. All these strange, happy coincidences. This isn’t the Force. This isn’t the universe. This isn’t a series of statistical anomalies.
This is the magic of Lundyn Toune.
My breaths are coming in quick gasps, but . . . this is nuts. Am I actually considering the possibility that this might be . . . ? That the dice could be giving me . . . ?
That my life might actually have been touched by . . .
Magic?
I mean, I want to believe in sorcery and unicorns as much as the next guy, but . . . I don’t actually believe in those things. I don’t believe in this.
But then—where did this dice come from? And now that I’m thinking about it, things did start to get weird as soon as I found it. Weird in a good way. The Paul McCartney signature and how I miraculously saved it from that coffee tumbler, when my real-life dexterity score would usually be pretty dismal. Then I had all those lucky guesses on the literature quiz, and the vending machine score, not to mention the outrageous improbability of flipping heads fifty-seven times in a row.
The timer goes off, startling me. I glance over in time to see the water foaming up, and manage to pull the pot off the burner seconds before it boils over. I feel dazed as I go through the motions of getting out a colander and draining the pasta. Throwing it back into the pot and adding the sauce. Getting out bowls and forks.
I don’t call my sisters yet, just stand there, the wooden spoon in one hand and the dice in the other. Thinking about lost temples and magic and luck.
The gold rune-like numbers glint up at me.
“If this is real,” I whisper, “give me a sign.”
Taking in a deep breath, I roll the dice.
There’s the familiar, comforting sound as it clatters across the counter, hits one of the bowls, and bounces right off the edge. I jump back as it lands on the floor and rolls past my feet, disappearing beneath one of the breakfast nook benches.
I ponder the spot where it vanished. Legitimately surprised at first. I actually thought for a second that would work. I don’t know what I expected, but . . . something cool. Something lucky.
So much for magic.
Vowing to never mention this to anyone, I crouch and stick my hand under the bench, feeling around for the dice. My hand lands on something long and narrow instead, and I pull out a mechanical pencil. I sigh and reach back under, this time finding the dice. I slide it out into the light, my eye catching on the number twenty shining on top.
“Cute,” I say, grabbing the dice and the pencil and standing up.
Only then do I recognize it. The mechanical pencil. Dark blue and dusty. My lips part as I pluck the strands of a dust bunny off its eraser.
It isn’t just any pencil. It’s my favorite pencil, that I used to draw with all the time until I lost it. It’s been missing for years, and now—here it is.
I turn my attention back to the dice, full of wonder. That twenty shimmers, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think the dice just winked at me
